I repeat “dead” aloud enough times for its meaning to loosen 

from sense. Once the word I repeat is no longer comprehensible, 

it begins to attack everything else I know.

Giorgio Agamben says devastation is one face of a Genius 

that exists inside us. The other face is creation.

The two sounds that begin and end “dead” echo in my ears. 

Then a third appears between them. The middle sound, between 

the coronal plosives of the letter d, is the ghost.

Agamben tells us that the Genius is within us only as long if 

we realize it does not belong to us. Just as existence does not.

Now I begin to voice only the ghost, and watch it ‘not appear.’

Is the narrow space between my Genius’s two faces 

where that ghost lives? When I listen for what will not appear, 

I hear my own voicelessness amplify. 

My hearing is most acute when I’m naked 

in front of the bedroom mirror.

I want voicelessness to create an echoing hollow 

inside every word I type.

I feel how listening to find disappearances makes my nipples erect. 

Disappearance is my new self-seduction.

^{Pain—has an Element of Blank—
                        —Emily Dickinson}

there is a herald a messenger a teacher’s aide
making proclamations 
about the ins and outs of the pupils’ bodies, the holes
the wounds, let’s quantify
the historical significance of your eczema
she says, waving lasers at my scaly elbows 
why use ordinary blood, she says, when you can use strange blood
why use blood in ordinary ways when you can use it in 
surprising ways!
when you can use blood in such a way that it makes you 
aware of just how weird and malleable
how goofy and ridiculous    how bizarre it is that our
bodies are made of the ugliest simplest things

************************************************

because in the end    the teacher’s aide says 
life is about words   you say a bunch of words 
and if you don’t like them you “cross them out” 
and say a bunch of new words
it’s kind of simple if you think about it (poetry!)
you use one kind of word
and not another
one kind of blood
and not another
one kind of blank
and not another 

************************************************

teacher’s aide sits us on the ground and “puts on her poetry hat” 
repeat after me 
“pain”, “blank”, “PAIN”, “BLANK”, “Pain?” “Blank?”
“painblankpainblankpainblank”
she makes us repeat the words until they are just sounds
“painblaaaaaankpainblaaaaaankpainblaaaaaank”
until they have no meaning anymore and then slowly she says
“Pain”…………………….”Blank”……………….”Pain”……………..”Blank”
she nurtures that pause so we can feel in our skin and bones how time is passing 
and she commands us to think about the relationship between “P” and “B”
between “ain” and “lank” 
because whether you know it or not
she says
you will think about the relationship between pain and blank
between ain and lank    for the rest of your lives 

************************************************

“painblank,” she says
“painblank painblank painblank”
the kids clap their hands, whooping 
“painblank! painblank! Painblank!”

************************************************

in unison we sing:
we have no future but ourselves
our infinite realms contain our past
all we will ever feel are
New Periods of Pain!  

I’m in my room writing
speaking in myself
& I hear you
move down the hallway
to water your plants

I write truth on the page
I strike the word over & over
yet I worry you’ll pour too much water on the plants
& the water will overflow onto the books
ruining them

If I can’t speak out of myself
how can I tell you I don’t care about the plants?
how can I tell you I don’t care if the books get wet?

We’ve been together seven years
& only now do I begin
clearing my throat to speak to you.